


Accepted

by nightrose



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Afterlife, Canon Era, Fluff, Heaven, M/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 04:45:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1538087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightrose/pseuds/nightrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras and Grantaire meet again in heaven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Accepted

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a drawing sclez did, and then I just kind of ran with it.

Grantaire wakes up.

Grantaire had not expected to wake up. He tried quite hard not to devote himself to thoughts of death, when he was alive—not out of any particular interest in seizing the day or living in the moment, but rather because the concerns of the mortal world gave him quite enough to despair over. Still, had he been asked, he would probably have assumed that after death there was only nothingness. Had he been informed that such a place as this, as, presumably, heaven, could exist, he would have been cheerfully certain that no such place could have a place for him.

But this can be no place but heaven, because his friends are here. They move towards him in a great crowd. 

Joly and Bossuet clap him on the shoulder, grinning to see him again. He draws each of them into an embrace. 

“My friends,” he says, his voice breaking, and they’re both surprised to see Grantaire so wordless with emotion, but both of them hug him, fiercely, back.

Jehan greets him with a kiss on the cheek and a sweet smile. “First and last,” he says, and Grantaire realizes he’s referring to the order of their deaths.

“Morbid as always, poet,” Grantaire teases, and Jehan laughs his high, bright laugh, with a little bow, acknowledging the accuracy of Grantaire’s comment. 

Bahorel punches him on the shoulder, a friendly gesture that will likely leave a bruise—if one’s wounds even leave marks, in heaven. The bullet wound that killed Grantaire seems to have been healed, so perhaps it won’t, but Grantaire is half-gratified to realize pain is still definitely possible—and completely gratified to see that his friend, libertine though he may have been in life, is here. 

Feuilly approaches him. Grantaire has only rarely spoken to the man before. He knows Enjolras respects this man more than any other, and he wishes he didn’t feel such ugly jealousy at the thought, so they’ve never been close. Grantaire hopes things will be different, now.”

“Enjolras told us what you did,” Feuilly tells him softly. “It was very brave.”

Grantaire would argue the compliment, but Courfeyrac is already pulling him into an embrace, and then Combeferre shaking his hand firmly, congratulating him for joining at the last. 

And then they all part, and behind them is Enjolras. The others disappear from view, moving away to give them some space to see each other, to let Grantaire speak to Enjolras. 

Enjolras, who is smiling. Smiling so sweetly and so brightly, and at Grantaire. Not just in his direction, but at him, as though Grantaire has caused this incandescent happiness to light up his face. 

He should look like the martyr he always wanted to be. His shirt is still riddled with eight bullet holes, and the white of it is blood-stained, though beneath the holes the wounds are gone. And yet that smile is not the fierce joy of battle or the saintly love of all men, even the ones who killed him—that smile is nothing Grantaire ever saw on Enjolras’ face while they lived (and he took good care to catalogue all the many wonders Enjolras’ face could produce). 

It is Grantaire’s instinct to feel nervous, to expect the rejection and scorn he’s had at Enjolras’ hands so many times. 

And yet, against his nature though it is, Grantaire has no doubt. There’s no more misunderstanding between them now. Grantaire knows with a certainty he’s only, in his life, felt about this that Enjolras understands. Understands why he did what he did, knows his feelings, and accepts him.

What he doesn’t expect, though, is for Enjolras to walk up quite so close to him.

“Grantaire,” he whispers, his voice gentle as Grantaire’s never heard it before, and then he’s wrapping his arms around Grantaire and drawing him close. His hands are at Grantaire’s neck, holding him. His fingers are warm and soft, uncalloused, and Grantaire closes his eyes, memorizing the feeling as he doesn’t expect he’ll ever get this close to Enjolras again. 

Enjolras is looking at him, looking right at him. Grantaire has to look downward. He can’t meet the intensity of Enjolras’ eyes on him, not like this.

Then he feels cool lips on his forehead. Enjolras has kissed him, has blessed him, with this touch.

He pulls away just enough so his lips are almost at Grantaire’s ear. Grantaire waits, half-frightened, half-eager, to hear what he’ll say.

His words are simple. “Thank you,” he says, and Grantaire squeezes his eyes shut more tightly. “No, R, look at me.”

Grantaire is powerless. He does as Enjolras asks, meeting that warm gaze. Enjolras just looks at him for a moment, with the brightness and gentleness and warmth Grantaire has dreamed of for so long. “You understand,” Grantaire half-asks. 

“Yes. I know why.”

“You know it wasn’t- it wasn’t just because of-“

“I know you did not act on sudden revolutionary fervor alone,” Enjolras says, a hint of humor in his voice. 

“And-“

“Thank you. For your devotion, as well as your sacrifice.”

Grantaire can hardly believe this is real, if this even is. He’s dead, and he’s glad of it. For he would have died a thousand times to hear these words. “You… you told the others.”

“Should I not have?” A sudden look of concern passes over Enjolras’ features.

“No. I mean- you were- you wanted. To tell the others. You-“

“Of course. I’m proud of you, Grantaire. I was excited for our friends to know. And… I felt I should admit my own failure.”

“How did you fail?” 

“I didn’t see, sooner. I had my eyes closed to you. You tried to give me this gift, so many times, and I didn’t see what you were offering until the last.”

“You see now.”

“Yes.”

“My love for you is the best of me. I wanted to give you that.”

“And you did. It took me so long—too long—to realize what you wanted to give me. But now I’m accepting it. Accepting you.”

“That was my best moment. But it’s not what I am. Not all of what I am.” Grantaire can hardly bear to confess this, not while Enjolras is looking at him with such sympathy. “You know that. You know me. You saw me be a hero for ten seconds, but most of our acquiantance you saw me drink and make a fool of myself-“

“And I accept that too. Or do you think me perfect, R?”

“You? Of course not. You’re idealistic to the point of foolishness, you have a nasty temper, and your disdain towards the fairest sex can hardly be a good thing-“

“And yet you still love me.”

“Yes. Rather because of your many faults than in spite of them.”

“And I feel the same for you, R. I know what you offered me when you asked my permission. All of yourself, the faults and the flaws and the wonderful things alike. And you need to know that when I took my hand, I accepted all of that. All of you.”

Grantaire is trembling, at the words, at the sense that everything he’s ever wanted, he is getting. He doesn’t know how to tell Enjolras that, doesn’t know how to put his feelings into words, so instead of going off on one of his long rambles and still not saying anything—he tilts his head up, looking into Enjolras’ eyes, hoping, hoping. 

And Enjolras understands, and accepts the offer, and holds Grantaire close as he sweeps him into a kiss.


End file.
